


the revival of a broken heart

by shatteredhourglass



Category: Until Dawn (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Josh Washington Is Not a Wendigo, Josh Washington Lives, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Mike Munroe/Jessica Riley, Needles, POV Josh Washington, Post-Canon, Recovery, The One Where Josh Is Surprisingly Well-Adjusted, Trans Chris Hartley, Trans Male Character, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 07:02:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23967325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: “Do you think we’re… getting better?”“We’re not getting worse,” Josh offers.He thinks the right answer is yes, that they’re doing a hell of a lot better than any of the doctors had expected, him especially. They’re alive and they’re walking and talking and going for morning walks. It tastes a lot like recovery, but Josh has only ever heard that word as a far-off goal, something that someone like him would never touch.
Relationships: Chris Hartley/Josh Washington
Comments: 4
Kudos: 55





	the revival of a broken heart

“I had a dream last night,” Jess says.

“Sexy dream? Probably shouldn’t tell me about that in detail,” Josh replies. “Mikey’s the jealous type.”

It squeezes a tiny giggle past her lips.

Josh is glad - getting anything out of her these days is a hard-won victory, but it’s worth the effort.

They’re walking along a path in the park, fall leaves falling down around them and piling on the ground. It’s starting to get cold again. They’re going to have to give up on these morning walks soon, trade them in for coffee shops or those fancy breakfast places that Jess likes. Josh isn’t so much a fan of traipsing around in the snow anymore, and the last time Jess had pushed herself she’d had a panic attack.

Josh sticks his hands in his pockets, wiggles around and finds holes that he sticks his fingers through to poke the cotton of his Jason Takes Manhattan shirt. He’s going to have to buy a new coat. Technically this one doesn’t belong to him, but he wears it more often than its owner does.

“No, dork,” Jess says. “I had a nice dream. One that wasn’t about the monsters.”

“Huh,” Josh answers.

Jess is starting to favour her left side again so he edges closer to the side of the path and then heads for the park bench overlooking the pond. It creaks worryingly when he sits down, but it’s survived for the last twenty-two years, it’ll be fine. Jess gives it a dubious look from where she’s huddled in the confines of her designer jacket. She sits down when he doesn’t move, thankfully.

Mike would kill him if she started limping. Also he doesn’t want her to get hurt but, you know.

“In the dream I was living in a big house,” Jess says absently. “I had a pair of Siamese cats who slept on my bed and there was a big oak tree out the front. Mike was chopping wood in the front yard and there was a servant making french toast.”

Josh snorts. “You have servants in this dream but Mike still has to chop the wood?”

“He’d look good doing it,” Jess retorts.

Josh can’t argue with that, so he just lifts one shoulder in a shrug. Jess looks vaguely smug about it as she crosses her legs neatly and watches a group of children run after an escaping dog. A cloud of ducks fly up into the air and Josh - doesn’t flinch _exactly_ , but he twitches. He’d be dumb to think Jess doesn’t notice.

She doesn’t say anything though, and he’s grateful for it. Grateful for her, to reach out for him when they’d both been stuck in whatever fancy name they’re giving the mental asylums these days. There’s a weird kind of camaraderie in them both being dragged around an abandoned mine by a creature far beyond their understanding, although neither of them can remember it clearly.

“Mike’s stopped sleeping with a gun,” Jess says.

“That’s good, right?” Josh says. “I think I forgot what guns look like. We don’t even have sharp knives in the house.”

“Duh. Of course it’s _good_ , Joshua.”

They sit in the quiet for a while longer, and Josh listens to the sounds of the world around him. Birds up in the trees, the angry duck that’s been there since junior high, leaves rustling, the quiet sound of Jess tapping her boot against the ground.

No shrieking.

No Hannah and Beth.

“Do you think we’re… getting better?”

“We’re not getting worse,” Josh offers.

He thinks the right answer is _yes_ , that they’re doing a hell of a lot better than any of the doctors had expected, him especially. They’re alive and they’re walking and talking and going for _morning walks_. It tastes a lot like recovery, but Josh has only ever heard that word as a far-off goal, something that someone like him would never touch.

“I want a cupcake,” Jess announces. “An expensive one from that bakery near your house, with the pink and purple icing on it.”

“I’ll get them to deliver a box to your place when I get back.”

“You’re my favourite bitch,” she tells him, lacing their fingers together.

She’s painted the nails a pale shade of grey and Josh looks at their hands, at the contrast of their skintones and Jess’ careful manicure against his own bitten-down stubs. Josh knows he’s not really her favourite, or at least not her favourite in the _true_ sense.

That particular accolade goes to Mike and after everything that’s happened, he deserves it. There’s something special about this friendship that he and Jess have cobbled together out of the ruins of their psyche and built up, though, something that is a hell of a lot healthier than either of them would’ve sought out before.

“You’re my favourite bitch too,” he says, and she smiles. There's a scar on her lip.

“Say hi to your boy for me,” she says. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Josh agrees.

The house is silent when he gets home. It’s pretty dark too, and Josh doesn’t bother with turning the lights on as he unlocks the door and wanders inside.

There’s a letter from Melinda on the kitchen counter, but it’s two days old and Josh still hasn’t given it more than a cursory glance. He knows it’ll be something useless like ‘ _oh, we’re in Guatemala for the next month, the credit cards are in the breadbox_.’ Josh knows they’re not coming home because they’re scared of him. He gets it.

It doesn’t matter. He’s got all he needs right here. It’s not like they ever really tried to help beyond sending him to empty white facilities anyway. Do they have pancake mix around here somewhere? Josh is pretty sure they put some on the shopping list, but he’s not sure if it made it on their online order.

Oh well.

He heads up the stairs.

The bedroom’s dark as well, the blackout curtains drawn as tight as possible. Josh makes a quick detour to the bathroom and turns the light on, then exits and leaves the door open just enough that there’s a faint yellow glow.

It gives him enough light to see the lump of blankets in his bed, and the foot sticking out of the blankets. He’s half-tempted to tickle the sole of it but he settles on the side of the mattress instead, curls his fingers around Chris’ bare ankle.

“Morning, hot stuff,” Josh greets.

He gets a grunt in response.

“You sure are a charmer, Cochise.”

Josh doesn’t get a reply for that, but he’s not really expecting one. He’s fairly sure that Chris hasn’t moved an inch since Josh got up three hours ago, bar turning the alarm on his phone off. After glancing around the room he spots the iPhone sitting on the floor by the wall, snorts.

“It’s one of those days, huh? You take your meds yet, Chris?"

A hand appears from under the blankets, palm facing up. They’ve done this before, on the bad days. Josh rummages around for the two boxes labeled C. HARTLEY (directly next to the surprisingly small amount labeled J. WASHINGTON) and double-checks the instructions before he pops them out of the packaging, and then he checks them again just in case.

He deposits them into the waiting hand once he’s sure and it disappears under the covers again a second later. 

"Gotta get breakfast, Cochise," he says. "You want it in here?"

He doesn't get a reply, which means the answer is yes. 

Josh doesn’t move for a few minutes. Instead he keeps his fingers on Chris’ ankle, slides sideways until he’s resting on the blankets and the warm body underneath. He thinks his cheek might be resting on the side of Chris’ ribcage but it’s hard to tell through the mass of fabric. Chris’ foot twitches under his hand and he rubs his thumb over the jut of bone before he sits up, already tired of the idea of cooking.

_Someone’s_ gotta do it, though.

It's hard to spiral downwards when he knows Chris needs him. 

Honestly if you’d asked Josh a year ago what he thought the future would look like, it wouldn’t be this. He’d have expected Chris to be the stable one - and he is, sometimes, but after what happened, sometimes he'll just shut down for a day or two. For some reason he trusts Josh to keep an eye on him. Josh wouldn’t have guessed Chris moving in with him instead of heading to New York with his dad and he _definitely_ wouldn’t have guessed they’d be… whatever it is they are.

“Sounds like it’s time for a movie marathon, bro,” Josh says.

Distractions are good. He thinks distractions are good. It’s better than Chris sleeping the whole day.

He sits up, looks up at the calendar just in case.

It's one of Sam's, now she's travelling again. Custom calendars are one of the ways she says she's still thinking of them, even if she can't be around them right now - himself especially. Josh gets an email from her every couple of weeks about where she's at now, and although he doesn't reply to them she keeps sending them. He thinks she's in Fiji right now. 

The calendar has a nice picture of a group of birds huddling together for warmth. It reminds him of blurry memories of the mountains, Chris’ warmth against his back and Sam gently clasping his cheeks with careful fingers. They’d come back for him, although it’s hard to sort through anything from that week. 

The calendar also informs him that today’s date is marked with a large " _T!_ "

Ah, crap. “Cochise? Any chance you got up to do the injection?”

Silence. This is important, though, so Josh peels at the layers of blanket until he finds Chris’ face underneath it, the frown on his lips. Right. Okay.

“That’s a no,” Josh says, more to himself than to Chris.

“Sorry.” Chris’ voice is raspy, unused.

“Don’t apologize to me, bro, they’re _your_ hormones.”

He gets up and ducks back into the bathroom to find the packets of sterile needles, the gloves (just in case) and the little bottle of testosterone that’s tucked behind the (admittedly awful) deodorant Chris uses.

Josh has seen Chris do it often enough now that he can get it set up and then switch the needle gauges over.

Josh holds onto it safely as Chris sits up and pushes his shorts down his hips. He can’t really help _looking_ \- it’s Chris, Josh can’t _help_ but look at him when there’s no layers of clothes and blankets - but he doesn’t touch.

Chris accepts the syringe and then angles himself awkwardly, trying to kick the blankets down further.

Josh looks away, and then glances back a minute later when Chris makes a noise.

The needle isn’t in his skin, though, it’s just balanced on Chris’ knee where he’s left it.

“Hand’s shaking too much,” Chris says, a glimmer of defeat in his eyes. “Shit. Come _on_.”

“Want to try food first?”

“I just- can you do it?”

“Me?” Josh is dumbfounded. Who the hell would trust _him_ with a needle? They’re not even supposed to have them in the house in case he has an ‘episode’ (he hasn’t had one in three months, whatever) but the testosterone needles are an exception for Chris’ sake. “You want me to-?”

“If you don’t want to it’s fine, man,” Chris says, looks tired.

“No, no,” Josh answers hurriedly, musters up a smirk. “I can totally stick it in you, baby.”

Chris doesn’t quite laugh but there’s amusement there, enough that Josh’s stress eases. He takes the needle back when it’s offered, looks down at it and then back at Chris’ pale skin.

"You're sure about this," Josh says.

Chris doesn't answer verbally but he's as obvious as he can be, rolling over on his stomach and spreading his knees a little. It's a vulnerable position and the sheer trust he’s being shown makes Josh's eyes sting, not that he’s ever going to admit that to anyone except _maybe_ his therapist, and only under duress. He feels weird talking about Chris with her. But Jesus Christmas, this is a lot.

He should probably make a joke or something. Break the tension. The old version of him would have made the joke already.

Instead he moves onto the bed properly, takes the alcohol swab and wipes it over the freckles on the curve of Chris’ ass carefully.

“Nice butt,” he says. Not a joke, but enough that he feels Chris relax an inch.

“C’mon, Josh.”

“’s not a race,” Josh says, but he gets on with it anyway.

For a split second he blinks and sees Sam running in a towel, feels the mask against his face.

It only lasts a second though, and then he’s disposing of the needle automatically and Chris is muttering something about a package arriving soon. He hasn’t moved when Josh looks back though.

There’s a drop of blood beading on Chris’ pale skin and Josh swipes it away with his thumb carefully, smears it off on his jeans. Then he sticks a bandaid on top and gives in to the urge to press his mouth to the dip of Chris’ spine.

Then he grazes his teeth along the skin as well because he can’t _not_.

“You said something about breakfast,” Chris says.

“Yeah,” Josh says absently, runs his fingers up the back of Chris’ thigh.

“Don’t make an ass-eating joke,” Chris adds, which is silly. Josh has higher standards for his jokes than that. He sits up anyway, gets out of the way when Chris rolls over and sits up.

It’s a good thing Chris doesn’t have his glasses on, Josh thinks quietly, because this way he can’t see what’s probably a stupidly smitten expression on Josh’s face.

“I owe you one,” Chris says, which is funny because Josh owes him a _million_ and if all Chris wants is some help on the bad days, Josh is happy to do that for the rest of his life.

“Okay,” he says, instead of laying out all his feelings. “One. How about you call Ash and go out with her tomorrow?”

Ashley gets nervous when Josh is around (and rightly so,) so Chris doesn’t get to see her as often. Josh doesn’t like to admit he feels horrifically guilty about it because that doesn’t help anyone, but he doesn’t like the idea of Chris only hanging out with _him_ for the rest of his life either. (Unhealthy self-isolating behaviours, his therapist says.)

Chris frowns. “That’s it?”

“Hey, I’ll take whatever you’re offering, that’s just my suggestion,” Josh replies.

“Mm,” Chris says, reaches out to tug him closer. Josh ends up half-in his lap, half-falling off the bed with one foot braced on the carpet, and then Chris kisses him.

It’s _nice_.

“Thanks,” Chris tells him.

“Thank _you_ ,” he says, and Chris makes a face like he’s not entirely sure what he’s being thanked for but it doesn’t matter. 


End file.
